The Choice

see that we have a choice: to pay attention to what we’ve lost or to pay
attention to what we still have.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
e other things I want to ask her, tell her, seem better le
wordless. Words can’t give shape to this new reality. To the gray coat
of my mama’s shoulder as I lean on her and the train goes on and on.
To my papa’s face overgrown with shadow. To what I wouldn’t give to
have those dark and hungry hours back again. To the transformation
of my parents into smoke. Both of my parents. I must assume my
father is dead too. I am about to muster a voice to ask Magda if we
dare hope that we haven’t been totally orphaned in the space of a day,
but I see that Magda has let her hair fall out of her ĕngers and onto
the dusty ground.
ey bring the uniforms—gray, ill-ĕtting dresses made of scratchy
cotton and wool. e sky is going dark. ey herd us to the gloomy,
primitive barracks where we will sleep on tiered shelves, six to a board.
It is a relief to go into the ugly room, to lose sight of the endlessly
smoking chimney. e kapo, the young woman who stole my earrings,
assigns us bunks and explains the rules. No one is allowed outside at
night. ere is the bucket—our nighttime bathroom. With our
bunkmates, Magda and I try lying on our board on the top tier. We
discover there’s more room if we alternate heads and feet. Still, no one
person can roll over or adjust her position without displacing someone
else. We work out a system for rolling together, coordinating our
turns. e kapo distributes a bowl to each new inmate. “Don’t lose it,”
she warns. “If you don’t have a bowl, you don’t eat.” In the darkening
barracks, we stand waiting for the next command. Will we be fed a
meal? Will we be sent to sleep? We hear music. I think I must be
imagining the sound of woodwinds and strings, but another inmate
explains there is a camp orchestra here, led by a world-class violinist.
Klara! I think. But the violinist she mentions is Viennese.